


Dark Side of the Moon

by FereldenTurnip



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Blood Kink, Blood and Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Nicolo di Genova, Dark Yusuf al-Kaysani, Dubious Morality, F/F, Immortal Murder Husbands, Immortal Wives Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder Kink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Painplay, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-19 00:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29742063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FereldenTurnip/pseuds/FereldenTurnip
Summary: "I'll put a stop to this. I'm going to find Copley. I'm going to get Quynh back." Andy, covered in congealing blood, makes an oath to the heavens and all the deities real or imagined.There are unseen forces at work, hunting them for some nefarious purpose. In order to save her love, her family, Andy is forced to strike a deal with the Devils. She'd hoped to never see those two again. Circumstance brings her at the mouth of the wolves' den. Yusuf and Nicolo will want her to beg. She won't give them the satisfaction.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 33
Kudos: 58





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what inspired this chaotic reimagining of TOG universe, but the premise is this: Joe and Nicky are both slightly psychotic but that works for them. Unfortunately, it doesn't work for Andy and Quynh, who can't agree with their violent morality. The couples go their separate ways, but history has a way of bringing them together time to time. 
> 
> This short story centers around the movie, with Quynh never going into the sea and Andy never losing her immortality. Portions go back in time, to different POVS, to give you a glimpse of just how relationships have eroded between the Guard. I'll warn each chapter and tag appropriately as it pops up, but Joe & Nicky are basically a match made in hell.
> 
> Disclaimer: I LOVE fluffy Joe/Nicky! ...But I'm also a Hannigram fan and thought to myself, "wow... what if you combined unlimited power with the burning need to right injustice as they see fit?" so now you all get Immortal Murder Husbands! They still love each other, that hasn't changed much. But damn if they aren't DARK. 
> 
> Shoutout to my betas: [Luna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_sol) and [Alicia](https://flamingbluepanda.tumblr.com/)!!! Hugs and kisses to you both!

It’s pissing rain and cold as shit in Germany.

The last time Andromache the Scythian visited Berlin, she was tearing down the wall that separated the East and the West. She was there when it was erected. There for the fall of Hitler’s regime… and republic before that… and the empire before _that_. So on and so forth. Andy is a woman old enough to remember clashing with the very same tribes who gave their names to these lands.

Now she’s returned. Back and desperate. Her little band of immortals proverbially limping after her and still reeling from their loss.

_I’ll fucking get her back!_ A cold fire rages inside Andy, making her limbs shake. Berlin is large and sleeps on top of a labyrinthian underground network of iniquity. She, Booker, and the new immortal, Nile (plucky, headstrong, clever-- _innocent_ \--and, fuck, Andy hates bringing her into this clusterfuck, but Quỳnh wanted, _begged_ \--), pick their way through back alleys and suspicious glares. Andy swallows the lump in her throat and trudges on.

As they get closer to their destination, their footsteps are drowned out by a heavy bass echoing over the damp stone walls. Andy herself feels like Charon leading them down the blackened River Styx. Instead of hell, they turn a corner and find themselves at a dead end illuminated by a neon sign. The red halogens turn the rain puddles into glowing pools of blood.

They’ve reached the mouth of _Der Wolf_.

Andy knows what lurks inside. This might as well be hell itself. She grits her teeth and sets her shoulders. _I have no other choice_ , she tells herself, _gotta make a deal with the Devils_.

“We don’t have to do this, Andy,” Booker murmurs behind her. She glances over at her second-in-command. Shoulders hunched in his raincoat, Booker looks smaller than he actually is. Shrunken in on himself like he typically does when stressed. They’re being _hunted_ , of _course_ Booker is stressed. Beside the man is Nile, who shivers intermittently in the dark. Plucked straight out of the hot, arid desert, Berlin in autumn is a brutal leap.

_Yeah, well, so’s finding out your old life is over_.

“What other choice do we have?” Andy shakes her head. “The trail went cold.” They’ve spent an entire day traversing two different countries, eating and drinking rations hastily shoved into duffle bags, and bathing in shitty restroom stalls. They’ve all had worse, but they’re physically and emotionally exhausted.

Booker shrugs, “Yes, but really, those two?”

Nile looks from one to the other. “Who are you talking about?”

Andy cuts Booker off from whatever rude comment lined up on the tip of his tongue. “Other immortals. They’ve got the resources to… help us.”

Nile raises an eyebrow. “You don’t sound confident.”

“It’s not a lack of _confidence_ , trust us,” Booker says wryly. Nile pauses, gears quickly turning behind her perceptive gaze. She is quick on the uptake, squaring her shoulders like she’s about to be thrown to the wolves. Whether it is her military training or natural instinct, Andy just knows Nile will fit in with them.

“The two men from my dreams, right? The ones with,” Nile’s lips thin, “all the blood.”

Booker and Andy both look to their feet, ashamed.

“Keep your head clear and don’t leave our sides,” Andy says, patting herself to verify all her weapons are secure and hidden. She knows Booker’s carrying a loaded piece under his left arm. The bouncer at the door doesn’t give a shit if they’re packing or not. This isn’t the kind of club that calls _die Polizei_ when trouble breaks out.

Even on a Wednesday night, there is a line queueing up into _Der Wolf_. One hard, icy stare from Andy is all the bouncer needs to jerk his head and let them pass. The doors open and they are consumed.

It’s a dark yet elegant interior that awaits the trio. This was once a club that catered to most of Berlin’s hidden lifestyles. A haven for people who sat ostracized on the fringes of society, _Der Wolf_ still retains the gold and geometric aesthetics from that period gone by, improved with a sophisticated modern flair. Above the classical bar hangs two crossed swords, one Arabic and one European. _How apropos_ , Andy thinks as she rolls her eyes.

The dance floor is lit up from below, casting shadows and beams of soft light on the sea of black-clad, undulating bodies. The DJ plays something heavy from the 80’s, all rebellious and grim. Overlooking the floor is a wrought-iron balcony reserved for VIPs.

Surveying all that he owns, the outline of a singular man leans over the railing, and gently bobs along to the music. The beat shifts. Their eyes lock. The lights reflect a wolfish grin, evident despite the beard. She can’t hear it, but she knows he is chuckling. How many times has she heard that damnable laugh aimed at her?

_Too often_ , Andy grimaces, climbing the sturdy spiral staircase that leads up to the VIP lounge. Booker waves Nile ahead, sandwiching her between the two of them, watching their six. Another burly bouncer cuts them off at the top of the stairs. Andy is suddenly too damn tired to glare him into submission.

“Easy does it, Felix,” the jovial cadence assures in perfect Low German. “These are just _old friends_ of ours. Let them pass, yes?”

Andy wants to spit. ‘ _Old friends_ ’ sounds more like a curse. “Hello Yusuf,” Andy drawls reluctantly. “Or whatever the fuck you’re calling yourself these days.”

“Joe will do just fine. Just fine _indeed!_ ”

Yusuf-- _Joe_ \--stands there as magnificent as ever. Jet-black suit sleek on his lithe body, he resembles a panther on the prowl. It matches well with his dark curls and beard. Errant flashes of silver from his rings and necklaces dance in the low-light of the club. Strange, if he were in a simple sweater and jeans, Joe might give off the impression of comfort and relief. After nearly a thousand years, Andy knows better. Those dark eyes of his hide a wicked predator. Yusuf al-Kaysani is _Dangerous_.

He watches her critically. Catalogs each hair out of place, every rip in her clothes, the hitch in her step--all of it ammo to use against her later. "You look good, _boss_."

"You look okay." Joe laughs. Andy darts her eyes around, assessing everything from exits, weapons, flammables, trouble--

“Where’s the Mister?”

“Ah, my better half.” Joe rests his hand over his heart and grins freely. Theatrics aside, Andy is well aware he means it. “Nicky’s handling a few, uh, loose ends. He’ll drop in shortly. You know he wouldn’t miss our reunion for the world!”

The bottom of Andy’s stomach drops and whatever protein bar she ate for dinner begins creeping back up her throat. Here she was, idiotically hoping she’d get away bargaining with just one, not both. Of course the men are inseparable. _Of course_ , Fate isn’t done shitting on her yet.

Joe shoos his bouncer away, like the behemoth is nothing more than a small dog underfoot. He whistles and clucks. “My, how long has it been?”

“Kosovo,” Andy bites out. What a complete cluster-fuck of a mission. Between rescuing refugees and evading paramilitary, the Guard had their work cut out for them. Made entirely worse by the man before them and his absent husband. Insatiable, those two. The Serbs even gave the vicious ghosts hounding their steps a name: срања. _The Shrikes_.

Benevolently, Joe ushers them over to a circle of plush leather couches. “Can I get my esteemed guests something to drink?”

He snaps his fingers and a waiter appears with a bottle of wine. Italian; vintage. It wouldn’t surprise Andy at all if Joe himself fermented and bottled it decades ago. The cork pops obscenely loud despite the din of the bustling club. Crystal glasses are quickly filled with a dark and viscous Pinot Noir. _Is it poison, nanny?_ Andy abstains despite the allure.

Joe’s inky-black eyes slip to Booker. “Same bourbon as before, ‘Bastien?” His French is flavoured with old Occitan.

Booker gives him a thin-lipped smile and tugs his own flask out of his jacket. “I’m good,” he says, making Joe laugh.

It’s a beautiful, hearty sound that crinkles his eyes. The flickering lights bounce off his glossy curls and get lost on his freckled cheeks. Dangerous _and_ bewitching. A devastating combination that has brought ruin to many cities. “You haven’t changed a bit, my dear!” He draws a delicate sip. “Oh! And who is this lovely young woman? Andy, don’t tell me you traded Quỳnh in for a younger model--”

Andy seethes. Red fills her vision and she nearly flings herself over the glass table to throttle Joe. Maybe break his wine glass and slit his throat with it. However fucking good that will do.

Sure enough, at the mere notion of violence against Joe, a new voice sounds like a warning bell just behind her. English this time, and accented. “She’s the new one from our dreams, _hayati_.”

All three jump and turn simultaneously to the source of the airy sound.

Andy frowns, hands fisting in her lap. It’s Nicolò, or _Nicky_.

The newcomer breezes around the couches, gliding his fingers along the back and nearly brushing their shoulders. Stalking quietly on his feet. “How lovely to see you again, Andromache. Sebastien,” he purrs. Nicky’s black pinstripe trousers are tailored to show off the strength and sensuality of his _assets_. The shirt covering his broad shoulders is as red as the drying blood speckling his knuckles. His curved smile hints at many sordid secrets.

Like a cat, Nicky slinks towards Joe and immediately curls into his side, gracing his husband with a sweet kiss to his cheek. They behold each other, as unwaveringly besotted as the day they first met and died.

“Hmm,” Joe pats Nicky’s knee, “so you’re right, my love.” His face is wondrously soft for his husband. That all shifts when he finally turns his attention to Nile. Andy’s hackles raise at the playful tone he uses. “The little girl playing soldier!”

The words hit true like an arrow, puffing Nile up with indignation. It just makes Joe laugh harder. “So what was it like, killing defenseless villagers?” The furrow between Nile’s brows grows deeper.

_She’s not ready for this_ , Andy thinks while she snaps out “ _Enough!_ ”

Joe, predictably, ignores her. He sips his wine, dark eyes holding Nile captive over the rim. A predator toying with its food. “Not much of a fight, right? I mean, how could they? You’re the Good Ole Stars and Stripes bringing sweet apple pie and saving them from themselves! Hopefully, you made mom and dad proud before they punched your ticket.”

“That’s not--how _dare_ you!” Nile finally blurts after stewing in silence.

Andy bares her teeth. It’s Booker who clears his throat, turning towards their newest member. “ _Keep your head,_ ” he whispers gently.

But Nile isn’t having it. “Shit was _bad_ out there. We were routing out terrorists--”

“Shut your mouth,” Joe suddenly asserts, sleet and thunder darkening his entire visage. The whole lounge goes deathly still. Even the music seems quieter. “You are a _child_. Playing with ideals which you swallow blindly. What’s more is you tread on centuries of broken promises and think yourself a hero. All you’ve done is add more bricks to the foundation of greed. Fuck your sanctimonious pride. I will have none of it in _my house_.”

Arm slung over Joe’s shoulder, Nicky serenely plays with his husband’s hair and pierces the three of them with his unnerving gaze. Pale green is a colour that never ceases to make Andy shudder.

Sufficiently cowed, Nile’s mouth snaps shut and her fury evaporates. For a moment, Andy eyes the neatly folded hands between Nile’s trembling knees and worries. No, there’s still a hidden courage in her brown eyes, a banked fire at the base of her spine, though marred with a fair bit of doubt. She’ll likely stay up late with Joe’s passionate speech rattling around inside her head.

“We’ve all been on the wrong side of war before,” Andy points out. “Some of us more than others.” It’s not a subtle dig, not with their present company.

Joe’s righteousness flips like a switch and he is back to his amiable self. “Depends on the century!” Pouring another glass, he passes it to Nicky with a wink. Andy spies the secret smile Nicky gives him. Is this all a damn game to them?

“At least _we_ fight for what we think is right,” Nicky primly sips his wine.

“You mean, murder,” Booker interjects.

Nicky focuses his laser eyes straight at him. “It’s not death but the sweet release, isn’t that right?”

Booker abruptly shrivels beneath the heavy stare. His hand shakes as he takes a gulp from his flask.

“So,” Joe quips with a sharp clap. “What brings you three here, bedraggled and short one member?” Nicky drinks his wine and tilts his head. “Yes, wherever is our dear sister Quỳnh?”

Andy hangs her head at the mere mention of the other half of her soul. “She’s been taken.”

Melancholy sinks like fog over Andy’s shoulders. She remembers startling awake with Quỳnh lying peacefully in her arms--Nile’s nightmare of blood-soaked sheets and teeth and nails making her flee into the chilly night air of Goussainville’s cemetery. Quỳnh urging Andy to set things right. Then the gunshots. The flashbangs. Booker lying in a pool of innards and Quỳnh… gone.

A pregnant pause stifles the lounge, then--

“Pff!” Nicky nearly sloshes his wine in a desperate bid to keep from giggling. Joe makes no such reservations, just lets out a giant guffaw from deep within his belly. Really, Andy fucking _hates_ these two.

Joe wipes the mirth from his eyes. “I’m terribly sorry,” his big, shit-eating grin says otherwise. “But this is England ‘03 all over again!”

Nile pipes up, curiosity overriding all else, “What happened in 2003?”

“ _1603_ ,” Nicky kindly corrects, swirling the remains of his drink. Nile sputters like she always does when reminded of their lengthy lives.

“We don’t need to rehash the past,” Andy growls.

Joe waves dismissively. “We found those two lovebirds caught up in a little inquisition. The mayor declared them guilty of witchcraft and planned on throwing our sweet sisters into the sea. Can you imagine?” Joe pouts. “Doomed to an eternity of torture and despair! The rush of saltwater their only pervading companion.”

“We burnt the whole town to the ground,” Nicky says with a pleased, nostalgic smile. A noise escapes Nile’s throat--shock or disgust or both, Andy can’t tell.

“Oh, _ya amar_ ,” Joe turns to him, in awe. He caresses Nicky’s face. “You were so glorious, like Archangel Michael wreathed in fire and blood.” They kiss, a clash of teeth and tongue, and Andy tries desperately to steer the conversation around before their fervor escalates.

“This is extremely important!”

They detach themselves, mouths shiny and panting. Nicky’s hands still roam and tease the planes of Joe’s chest, fingers slipping in between the buttons. Audience be damned.

Fondling Nicky’s thigh, Joe smirks lasciviously. “And now you want us to rescue you again, yes?”

Andy scoffs, crossing her arms. “As if you rescued us the first time. It took Quỳnh and I another three days to escape our chains!”

Sensing a fight, Nile sensibly interjects. “An elite force captured her. They know who we are and we think they’re after the secret to our immortality.”

Joe and Nicky go still. “Elite force, you say,” Joe squints.

“Professionals,” Nile nods. Her determination triggers a swell of pride within Andy. “High-level weapons, armored vehicles, and gas. They infiltrated a safehouse and took Quỳnh before we--I mean, _Andy_ , could secure the place.”

“Booker's contract went sour. He tried tracking the agent responsible, Copley, but the trail’s gone cold,” Andy adds. She notices Nicky’s attention is no longer on her, but instead on Booker. Hanging his head in shame, Booker steadily empties his flask. She hasn’t the time to assuage him. Not with Quỳnh’s fate on the line.

Joe’s eyebrows jump. “Sounds like their boss is well financed. The money should be easy enough to trace. A few pulled favors and I can find this Agent Copley before dawn. The _real_ question is, why should we help.”

“You sonofabitch!” Andy bellows, jumping to her feet and startling the bouncers out from the shadows. “Do it for Quỳnh! Out of all of us, it’s _Quỳnh_ who somehow thinks you two are redeemable.” What stings is the look of glee writ large over Joe’s lovely face. He enjoys watching her fly apart at the seams. “You’ve _never_ liked me--”

“False,” Joe simpers. “We hate watching you squander your gifts, wasting your true potential, and dragging the others all down with you. You were a _god_ , Andromache! Did you leave your ambition in a cave somewhere, along with all your other discarded relics?”

Andy scowls, but a fissure deep inside her fractures open. “I-I won’t be judge, jury, and executioner. I’m not _you_. We’re here to make a difference.”

Breaking his silence, Nicky levels her with a look that ought to be sympathetic. On his beautiful, statuesque features? It’s cruelty masquerading as kindness. “Oh, Andromache. Surely you can see how weak and vulnerable people are? Sometimes the best thing you can do for humanity is let a few of them die.”

“How charitable,” Andy sneers, “I guess stringing people up by their entrails is doing the world some good?”

Smiling, Nicky tenderly agrees. “If they deserve it, yes!”

“You’re so fucked up, Nicolò--”

“Guys! Hey!” Nile suddenly leans forward, slamming her fist on the table. Booker jumps and gapes at her. “Listen! I don’t know what crazy shit has happened between everybody, but you’re immortal too!” She points at the pair sprawling arrogantly across from them. “These mercs won’t stop until they have all of us. So, like it or not, we’re in this together!”

“Who says?” Joe shrugs. “Until your arrival, our lives were relatively unperturbed.”

“ _Tesoro_ ,” Nicky admonishes. He leans in close and whispers something into Joe’s ear. Time is running out and Andy’s patience is waning. Joe’s little giggle and shocked gasp only infuriates her further. His dark eyes take the three of them in, a smile curling on his plush lips when he reaches the end of the couch where Booker is quietly fidgeting.

“Alright,” Joe drawls. “We’ll help with your little family squabble.”

“What’s the catch?” Hands raised placatingly, Joe smirks. “No catch! Cross my heart! Why so suspicious, Andromache?”

“Call it a fucking hunch,” she answers dryly.

“Someday, you’ll learn to place your trust in the right people,” Nicky says in his usual cryptic fashion. A fan of mind games, that one. As always, Andy refuses to play.

The music changes to a ticking, malignant beat-- _‘the bats have left the bell tower, the victims have been bled’_... Andy gulps and waits.

Joe stands, all dark elegance and refinement. He straightens his blazer while Nicky pets his flank and basks in his presence. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some phone calls to make.” He grips Nicky’s chin, forcing his neck to arch, and kisses him soundly on the lips. Nicky mutely promises a night of debauchery that Andy knows he’ll cash sooner or later. Hopefully later. Joe winks and thumbs Nicky’s bottom lip.

“‘Bastien, walk with me. I need to know more about your illusive agent should you wish to find him.”

Booker hesitates and gapes like a fish caught in a net. Still, he defers to Andy first, waiting for her nod before following at Joe’s heels. She watches them disappear down the spiral stairs and into the thicket of dancing bodies. Lights and shadow. Nile worries the zipper of her jacket.

“Come,” Nicky says, standing gracefully as well. The bouncers avert their eyes as he passes by.

( _‘Alone in a darkened room. The Count.’_ )

“You must be tired. Luckily, we have some rooms for you to rest in until you’re ready to venture out.”

Fatigue wins over apprehension and Andy sags from the sheer weight of it. When was the last time they’ve had a full night’s rest? Even Andy’s eye bags have bags. Nile fares no better beside her. Now that they’ve all met, at least the nightmares of murder and mayhem will plague her no longer.

The morose croon of _‘Undead! Undead! Undead!’_ accompanies them as they make their way into the belly of _Der Wolf_.

.


	2. A Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf sees Nicolò on the field of battle. 
> 
> It's like destiny. 
> 
> Two halves meeting. A reciprocation of depravity. The world shudders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A minor interlude!
> 
> Warning for: violence and battlefield nastiness. They also mindlessly fuck outside Jerusalem surrounded by those who died. _Yikes!_
> 
> Again, thank you Luna for the quick beta read! Here's hoping you have quieter work days ahead!

Fire rings a path of pain all around him.

It chokes him with livid embers and buries him in a mountain of ash. Yusuf drowns himself in the torrent, both receiving and delivering cruelly. These foul foreign devils who trample across his people’s lands _will know_ the error of their ways. He’ll break their bones to get at the marrow of their regret.

The fields are soaked red, muddy with all this death. Do the heavens weep? Yusuf has no energy for tears. He cloaks himself in righteous fury, cutting men down, cleaving them in twain. The blue walls of the Holy City loom across the gulley, watching and waiting. Judging.

Yusuf’s scimitar is a primal extension of his arm. Given glorious purpose to teach his foes the true meaning of despair. The pigs before him bay and shriek. Unfaltering, he butchers them one by one. Grits his teeth and _revels_ in it. Leaves a hot trail of corpses in his whirling wake.

Cresting a small hill to catch his breath, Yusuf finally sees it. Sees _him_.

The waning light is haloing his matted long hair. It catches in his pale eyes like shimmering emeralds. This foe, who dominates the field as an archangel of holy terror. He slaughters Yusuf’s brothers-in-arms and snarls his rage. Like a moth to flame, Yusuf gives chase.

For the first time in a long while, he stumbles.

Gore and viscera stain their faces. Through the muck, their eyes meet. The reaction is just as instantaneous for this stranger as it is for Yusuf. His face goes slack--his jeweled eyes widen. It’s a familiarity of souls reflected back upon each other like a cracked mirror. Then comes the crashing realization. _There is another, a kindred spirit like me!_

It pulls them together, this merciless tide which Yusuf fears will inevitably shatter them.

They don’t break.

They collide and _meld_.

Their hearts beat as one, Yusuf is certain of it. Raising their swords in unison and whirling. Slashing. Stabbing.

One soul screams: _I have been lost in the darkness… until I met you_.

The other answers: _Then join me here, and we will run this path together_.

The rest of the world fades, completely ceasing to exist. The city, the battle, even time itself.

When their blades finally sheathe themselves inside the other, they embrace and crumble to the earth. Humid breath stutters across their cheeks.

The beauty’s lips twitch as he touches Yusuf’s beard, burying his fingers inside the wiry hairs. His fingers are filthy, but Yusuf floats when graced with such an exquisite, peaceful smile. He cannot look away from those beguiling eyes, even as the life within them fades.

They die there, entangled from toe to chin.

Death doesn’t keep them for long.

When they awake, it’s with one shared gasp.

The city’s mangonels ricochet and the armies move on. The two of them are forgotten by all else save each other.

A great swell of indescribable emotion overcomes Yusuf. It’s impossible to express how, in that very moment with their foreheads bumping, Yusuf feels every fiber in his body align in league with the other man.

This stranger is without a doubt the other half of his soul. A man who makes no move to flee from Yusuf’s arms. Instead, he whispers rapturously into Yusuf’s mouth, his language a pidgin tongue Yusuf knows quite well.

“You are my other half. I was made for you, and you were made for me.” It’s an oath, a solemn prayer uttered by curved lips. The desire to trace them with his tongue is pervasive.

Yusuf reciprocates in kind. “You are my missing piece. I will have no other but you, and you no other but me.”

At Yusuf’s rumbling timber, the man’s lovely eyes fall shut and he moans in ecstasy. They bind their words in blood and fire, killing and dying and reviving. Many times. A repetition born from an intense passion to see the other wracked with exquisite agony. Every death draws them closer and closer--to what end? Yusuf is sure it’ll be _miraculous_.

When they’ve had their fill destroying one another, Yusuf is thrown unceremoniously to the ground and _ravished_. Hands hastily rip and tug away mail and padding, shedding layers so that they may writhe naked beneath the blood-red moon. Lips and teeth and tongues devour each other as they howl and rut.

Their marriage bed that night is a field of corpses.

( _“It’s like destiny,”_ Nicolò will whisper later, cupping Yusuf’s cheeks beneath the stars.)

Yusuf arches into the delightful bites and stinging claw marks. Their engorged cocks slot together, heavenly ordained to fit and fuck. He grabs a fistful of his soulmate’s hair with a grip hard enough to break his neck. He doesn’t. Just exposes the pale column for a claiming kiss that rocks them over the edge.

They fall and fly, shattering apart and coming together.

To Yusuf, it is a _rebirth_.

*

Half a world away, a woman lurches from her bloody dreams with a broken cry. She rolls away from her lovers and onto her side to vomit in the grass.

Gentle hands caress her back, but all she can think about is the horror and exhilaration coursing in tandem through her body.

_Fate… What have you done?_

_*_


End file.
